Sunday, 6 December 2015

After the Earthquake - the first bit.

It's almost here - After the Earthquake - my little ebook about Nepal. I know I said that last week, but now it's nail-biting time. The copy edits should be back any day now.

So, while we're waiting, here is the beginning:

It was a Saturday morning
in April. I rolled over, half asleep, to turn on my radio and listen to the
News.

Early
accounts were disorganised. An earthquake had rocked Kathmandu. In the foolish
light of dawn I believed it was nothing more than the earth grumbling, far
beneath the city. But, as I carried on listening, the full devastation became
clearer. I made tea and turned on the television. All those glorious temples,
reduced to rubble. Families wept in the streets, for themselves, and for the
thousands who had died. Villages flattened. Avalanches crashing down the
mountains, taking tents and trekkers with them.

I
felt as if I were drowning in helplessness. It was hard to eat, to sleep in my
warm bed, knowing so many shivered in tents in the parks of Kathmandu, and who
knew how many were searching for shelter in the mountains.

What
of my friends? Where was Tika? Shobha? Bhadra? Ajay and Upama? Those who had
kept me safe and laughing since my first visit to Nepal nearly fifteen years
ago. It was a few days before I knew that they were all safe, but they were
frightened. The ground hadn’t stopped quivering. My feeble efforts to support
them were not enough.

Now, five months later, I’m
going back to Nepal. I can’t abandon them, these friends of mine, considering
all they’ve been through.

We’ve
all seen those after-the-earthquake pictures: the ruins in Durbar Square,
temples where the faithful once rubbed shoulders with tourists wielding
selfie-sticks; where incense wafted across crowded streets and made my eyes
water. We’ve read of villages flattened; of families facing the ravages of the
monsoon with nothing but a bit of borrowed tin above their heads. We’ve read of
avalanches and death in the mountains.

Yet
– I confess – I’ve been reluctant to go back. Even now, in the sterility of the
Departure Lounge at Heathrow Airport, I have misgivings. I will not exploit the
needy, nor gawp at their misfortune. I’ll not gaze at people living in wretched
tents. There is something uncomfortable about travelling from the comfort and
safety of my western home to a country where the needs are so huge. Might I be
seen as patronising? What use could I be? I can’t rebuild a home. I can’t even
cook something edible over a fire. I can play with children – surely scant
consolation for people who have lost everything.

But
Tika has invited me. I’ve known him since my first visit here. He has guided me
through an adventure or two in the past. We want to see you, he said. Stay in
our home, he said. It is enough to stifle my qualms. Besides, there is no
resisting Tika.